Thursday, September 16, 2010

The Collector

Alex sat quietly outside the door of his home breathing in the crisp air of a Wisconsin autumn. The chill of the day bore into his arthritic knuckles bringing his advancing age sharply to mind. It was his 75th birthday and he would likely spend it alone. He smiled at the thought. He'd finally achieved what he had wanted most of his youth. Peace and quiet. He'd never imagined that the phrase was a fancy way to say loneliness. Taking a deep breath, he felt an ache in his lungs. It wouldn't be much longer, he knew, before that life affirming pain was no longer felt. Cancer had ravaged most of his family and he believed from an early age that it wouldn't be any different for him.

Looking at his watch told him that his only possible visitor would not be coming. His mailbox would remain empty. Not even a coupon would bring him a little company. Slowly he shuffled through his door, up the staircase, and to his balcony. "At least," he thought as he looked over the numerous collections that had overrun his home and extended into the adjacent buildings, "I'll have hundreds of visitors after my death."

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

No comments:

Post a Comment